Just Like Her

Chapter 7

Emma

I attempted to casually tug my denim shorts down lower over my thighs—while I appreciated their high-waist fit, I did not appreciate the roaring fire they permitted between my chaffing flesh.

I had just finished sitting through my third panel of the day and was desperate for an iced coffee to sip while pouring over my notes. It was unseasonably hot for so early in the summer, and, worst of all, the air had already begun to stick with humidity.

I scanned the outdoor seating offered by the cafés lining the main street and—to my horror—I could not spot a single empty table. It was nearly halfway through the festival, so I was not surprised to see the tiny village of Hay-on-Wye completely overrun with bibliophiles. Normally, being surrounded by other booklovers and literary enthusiasts would have made my day, but on that particular day—with the heat, my exhaustion, and a looming deadline—it made me want to scream.

In the shade of a standing umbrella, I noticed a solitary figure sitting at a rather large, iron table. My eyes attempted to adjust to the light as I strode in and out of the sun's glare, and, as I neared, I realized it was a man—middle-aged, perhaps, with deeply tanned skin and whisks of grey protruding from his otherwise dark, coarse hair. He was seated with his shoulder jutting toward me, hunched over a rather dense-looking book.

I cleared my throat softly when I stood only a meter from his table. But, failing to gain his attention, I tried a bolder tactic.

"Excuse me," I croaked as I took another step forward. "Sorry to interrupt—I just—well there's nowhere to—would you mind if I joined you?"

In an instant, his startled gaze met mine. His irises were astonishingly bright—nearly turquoise in hue—which was only exaggerated by the length of his thick eyelashes and the rich brown tints in the turtle shell frames of his spectacles.

He blinked up at me, his full lips puckered ever so slightly in a confused frown.

"S-Sorry," I repeated, fully distracted by his beautiful features. His eyes—still wide though growing less and less alarmed—portrayed a youthfulness that contrasted with his other more mature features. 

I struggled to pull my thoughts from attempting to reassess his age to convincing him to let my tired limbs rest at his table. "I promise I won't talk on my mobile—or to you for that matter. I only need to do some writing and have a coffee—I desperately need to have a coffee."

He pulled off his glasses and looked me over, as if now only clearly seeing me.

"You're a writer?" He asked, his voice softly trilling with an accent I couldn't quite place.

I nodded my head and then shook it. "No—yes—I'm a journalist, not an author or anything."

The corner of his lips tugged upwards into a slanted smirk. "You're not anything?"

"I'm a reviewer," I said a little curtly.

He raised a heavyset eyebrow. "For what publication?"

I shifted uneasily in my sandals. "The Print?"

His smirk pulled into a smug smile. "Please have a seat... Ms. Henderson, I presume."

I blanched, my hand frozen on the back of the empty chair. "I reviewed one of your books?"

"Don't worry," he said, his grin now reminding me of the Cheshire Cat. "You weren't mean enough for me to refuse to let you sit—at least not in this heat."